THE BRITISH ISLE AGREEMENT
by hawthorneash13
Summary: Britain was quarreling with France, as he commonly does. It was a normel meeting,until Scotland,Wales,S. and N. Ireland,show up, demanding England honor his agreement.His brothers...made the British nation act strange, less dorky and angry as he usaully is.He leaves with his brothers, much to the confusion of the G8. What is this agrrement?And where are the brothers going?
1. Chapter 1

There has been many times England wanted to leave or not even attend a meeting. As everyone yelled and argued, England quarreled with France. They were making fun of each other's revolutionary faults, which was quite below the belt, considering what they usually squabbled about. Russia was drinking vodka, a sign to all other countries that it would be death to talk to him. America was inhaling his atrocious pile of fattening burgers, as he commonly does.

"You frog! You bloody wanker! You let your bleeding military ran rapid! They were merciless! Five years a slave for stealing bread?! Really?!" England screeched. France sputtered,

"Must I mention THAT?!" He shot back, pointing to America. England cringed, looking away. He refused to talk after that, despite Frances probes. Italy was walking around the room, practically shoving pasta down every ones throats. A feeling settled down on Britain, one he swore he refused to feel again. His snapped to the door just as it started shaking, pounding against its lock and hinges. Germany ordered everyone into silence, them all staring at the door. It shook, paused, and then the sound of scratching filled the room.

"No…" England whispered, eyes widening in fear. France, who was sitting next to him, looked on in confusion. Few things truly scared England, and the things that did were in all levels of terror. A slow, haunting chuckle sounded from the opposite side of the door, one that could rival Russia's. The shaking increased, causing dust to fall from the roof.

"England…" The voice said, drawling out the syllables. Britain's face was as pale as bleached bone, and he gripped his hands until his knuckles were as ashen as his face. The other countries were starting to notice his fear.

"England… come out come out were ever you are…" the voice cackled. Just as it seemed that terror would crush him, the raging sea of fear on his face disappeared, turning to a gentle tide of indifference. The way England's face relaxed, it wasn't like anyway the other countries, beside America and France, had seen. It seemed to contort his entire facial structure, making it stoic, thin, cruel, hard. Something that the countries didn't typical see. America was truly shaking with fear now, knowing exactly what was going to happen.

"O-Oh sh*t." He muttered, Japan, Germany, and others looking at him in question. America had gotten his tolerance of fear from England… He wasn't afraid as easily as he would let on, unless it was a scary movie. In a fluid motion, England rose from his seat, walking to the door, standing about seven paces from it.

"England… Britain… Arthur…" The voice dragged like broken glass. Being called Arthur was the last straw. Standing with his shoulders facing away from the door, he drew a pistol, and let loose all its rounds into the door, puncturing it, the metal colliding with whatever was unlucky enough to be standing behind it. The group let out a collective gasp, his face remaining ever composed. He reloaded his gun, the camber clicking back into place as England opened the door. He stared down at the uninjured shape on the ground, it smirking like an insane fool. The countries coming from behind him just as he addressed the fiery haired man,

"Hello brother."

**Whatcha think? Good cliffhanger? HEHEHEHEHEHEHE…**


	2. Chapter 2

Half of the world was flabbergasted by the occurrence that, well, occurred. Britain stood over his brother, his actual blood brother. His hair was a deep, unnatural red, were as his eyes were shockingly green. Something lurked in those emerald depths, something… malicious. The two had a long staring contest, which ended when England stuck out his arm, the former grabbing it and pulling himself up. He chuckled lowly, looking over England's shoulder, which still hadn't turned around. He whispered something in the island nation's ear, still looking at the group before them.

"Allister…" England muttered, turning his head slightly to address his brother in his eyes.

"Who is this?" Russia asked, his creepy smile insinuating that bad things were going to happen. Scotland snapped his head to address him, eyes like a starving lion that found a fat injured gazelle.

"I…" He smirked, shoving his unstableness into view, "am this things…" He pointed to England, who jabbed him in the ribs, "brother… you may know me as…" he spoke now like he was talking to a small child, "Scotland." These words rippled throughout the group. Scotland was known for his… personality. As they digested this, he lit a cigar, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke in Germany's face. He started to walk backwards, England walking forward, into the shadows.

"Wait! England! Where are you going?!" America cried. Out of the steep shadows steeped a man who was practically a twin of the addressed country. All that remained now were Russia, Germany, America and France. The others had quietly slipped into to the conference room, as to the judgment of Japan to avoid further freaking out of Italy. The twin stood in front of the still turned back of England, crossing his arms, and furrowing his thick brows,

"He is coming with us. As per our… agreement." He said, his Welsh accent thick, clearly stating he was Wales. His hair was much longer than England's, but it didn't seem like the time Britain was trying to duplicate France.

"We won't let you." America announced boldly, puffing out his chest. Wales' eyes darkened, a small red form crawling from his back to perch on his shoulder. The creature lifted its thorny, regal head to stare down the countries with flaming eyes. Its bright crimson body in contrast with the shady brothers. A puff of smoke escaped his nostrils just when two other men sauntered out, one leaning his back against Scotland and the other leaning his back against Wales.

"You and what army?" South and North Ireland replied in unison. England finally turned to face the traumatized faction of nations. He was surrounded by this… gang, it seemed. And, for once, he looked completely in place. He replaced the gun in its holster.

"Is that a proclamation of war?" Germany asked, his voice hard. The Irelands grinned mischievously. It was creepy how much these countries looked like England; they knew about Scotland, Wales and Ireland, they just didn't know that they were related to England. Heck, they had never even seen them; there wasn't really a reason to in the past.

"Germany that is not a proclamation of war. My brothers are idiots. And, must I remind you, North..." England calmly stated. North Ireland looked away, a hard look in his eyes. It was the first time he spoke since being encircled by this little division. He made eye contact with Scotland, Wales, and S. Ireland and N. Ireland. A hidden message went through this connection, leaving a quiet smirk on the countries' faces. England walked out of the protective group, the brothers letting him. He stood in front of Russia, Germany, France and America.

"You tell us what goes on, da?" Russia said calmly, his childish smile splintering his wide face. England looked back at Scotland, who nodded slightly, raising a amused eyebrow.

"I… made an agreement with my brothers, one that will keep me away from the meetings for awhile. " He spoke slowly, like he was unsure of what he was saying. France noticed the well-hidden venom in the brothers' gaze, especially Scotland. With that, the siblings walked away, their feet striking the ground in unison. America reached out, grabbing Britain by the arm, childishly trying to keep the nation here. England yanked his arm out of the grip, a sad look on his face, pain in his eyes as America stared in shock and betrayal. Shock because England was able to break his grip, and betrayed, well, you can guess why.

"Was I the only one to see the dragon?" Russia asked happily, as England walked out of sight.

"Nein." Germany replied staring depressingly at America's fallen face.

"I guess England wasn't wrong about seeing the magical creatures."

**I suck! Sorry for getting this out so late. Wow, strange word order. ANYWAY, I hope you enjoyed it! Oh, for some reason, I wanted to make England BA, so get used to it. I'm SO sick of England being wimpy and angry all the time. Review, be kind, frolic, and have a firkin' lovely day.**


	3. Chapter 3

For some reason, the brothers lead England to the roof. He looked around, sensing Scotland behind him. Scotland grabbed him by the shirt, shaking him. In a flash, England was transported back to his nation-hood.  
_Scotland walked over to him, the scarlet head rising about a foot taller than the four foot chibi England. He grabbed England by his hood, shaking him. He grinned evilly, enjoying the young nations fear. Britain wished he could fight back, but was too scared to do anything. He was always bullied by Scotland, Wales watching. N. and S. Ireland sometimes helped, but still, England was Allisters favorite plaything. Once his verbal and physical abuse had satisfied the fierce nation, he left the island country in near tears. They quivered on his eyelids, and he swore once he was bigger he would get back at Scotland._  
And he remembered that promise, remembered it as Scotland jabbed and shook him. He glared over his shoulder, grabbing Scotland's hand and twisting the thumb over past the wrist joint. Scotland hissed in surprise and pain. Wales and the Irelands looked on in surprise. Before Scotland could act on his anger to attack his slightly younger brother, England shoved him down to the ground, using his arm as leverage. Plain shock shrouded the group. England! Britain, the wimp!  
In a flash, England released his brother, took a step back, his calm expression never leaving his face. Scotland's face heated with blood and fury, astonishment lurking in his wicked eyes. Before he could curse out the nation, England turned on his heel and walked to the edge of the roof. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking out at the Italian coast. Wales walked over to Scotland, who had gotten up almost immediately after being pushed down, staring and grinning slightly.  
"Looks like England did agree to the terms of that deal." _Oh, yes. I forgot about that one_. England thought coolly. When England was just about to leave his brothers' care, Wales had dragged him aside,  
_"England. My brother, do control that anger of yours." He asked politely. England huffed, crossing his arms as fury raised its ugly head. But before he could spit out an insult, Wales held up his hand to silence him.  
"See? You cannot care for your country fairly with this type of un-channeled anger. Take Scotland for example: His economy is suffering due to the constant fights he sends the military on. Take heed, brother. Find a useful way to channel it. Take up self defense, though no human can kill us, it would be useful. An example to your people, take the time to stay strong even though you already have strength. Learn to show no emotion, it will be supremely useful, in many things. Will you agree to this?" Wales asked kindly, showing his wisdom. His words penetrated the island nation to his core, knowing that it was very true. He forced his resentment down, took a deep breath, and shook Wales' out stretched hand.  
"Yes, Wales, I shall try."_  
The memory dissolved, sinking back into Britain's brain. Wales was unnaturally wise, for someone so… uninvolved. England had done what Wales had asked, exactly that. In the meetings he had acted on false anger, and wimpy-ness. This was to make them think him unassuming. Doubting your enemy is the most powerful weapon against you. As Scotland found out. He could feel the fumes of anger rolling of Scotland, to which he turned so he wouldn't be pushed off the roof. Scotland was saying several things that would not be appropriate for any little ears beyond Italy's age. England remained unaffected. Wales just stood there, watching, not doing anything besides stroking his dragon.  
" YOU ARE SO DEAD!" Scotland yelled. England remained impassive, even as his brother stormed up to him and slapped his across the face. Just then, America, of all countries, opened the ajar door, seeing Scotland's hand connected with England's now stoic face. And he just stood there for a bit, the others unaware of him.  
"Scotland, please. You may be a bit older than me, but the way you treated me in my childhood; this will not happen any more. Agreed?" England replied calmly. America was beyond confused. Had Scotland treated England like this in the past…?  
"Another agreement?! You already made one of those! Your supposed to give South Ireland his freedom, not to mention-" England cut Scotland off, his eyes hard and dangerous,  
"I am aware of what I must do and give. Are you, dear brother? Will you honor the British Isle Agreement?" The determination and finality in the countries voice stopped America's heart cold. So this that was what this agreement of theirs was called? What should he do…? Go help England, be the hero…? But England didn't need saving. The way he handled himself was completely foreign to the U.S.. He had gotten a little like this when America claimed his revolution.  
_America and England were alone, facing each other with raised muskets. The rain poured down, trenching the bloodied fields, turning it a dark brown slush. America put his weapon down, sighing heavily.  
"Has it come to this England? We were brothers-"  
"Your no brother of mine any more! Your going to get my colonies killed by other countries!" England spat, charging him. America pulled up his weapon, using it as a shield as the bayonet knife skittered across the wood. Realizing what he had done, what he tried to do, Britain dropped his gun, tears quivering his eyes as he apologized. But, as the his words spewed like a broken pump, he stopped, straightened, and stared America down, his eyes devoid of any emotion. It was like he was an entirely different person. That was when America felt true fear. It was the unknown look England was giving him. He didn't know how to process it.  
"England? W-what- why are you looking at me like that?" America sputtered.  
"You are dead to me." England replied in monotone. He turned on his heel, walking away. He could hear sputtering sobs and a squish as the mud absorbed America's knee's. Tears leaked down Britain's face, though you couldn't tell through the rain. He wished against reality that he hadn't said that. So, so much he regretted_.  
The memory faded and America still stared as Scotland raised his hand again, this time in a fist. America started to run out of the door to England when he caught that fist. His puny, little, slow, hand closed around Allisters large, strong fist, stopping it cold. B-But England, he didn't know how to do that! Wait, yeah he did, he has one of the most affective militaries! America remained himself in shock. But he didn't hardly remember England for his prowess in fighting, just his capacity for rage. That unemotional mask cracked, leaking a wave of heat into his otherwise icy exterior. His brows furrowed, a spark of irritation in his eyes.  
"If you want to continue this later, I would happily oblige, but before you emit any more information of the British Isle Agreement, I would like to point out America's over there." England informed. The brothers snapped their head to the nation, shadow obscuring their features. England dropped Scotland's fist, walking around him. A long green shadow rose above Scotland, one England ignored.  
"Allister, please put Neisse away." Wales said as his dragon sat on his head. Slowly, the viscous looking creature disappeared, how it got there in the first place, the author doesn't know.  
"You weren't l-lying about the magical creatures!" America shouted.  
"Yes I know. Now… America." Said England, stepping slowly closer, hands behind his back, Britain scrunched his too thick eyebrows together. Wales looked at him approvingly, green eyes deep and blazing with hidden knowledge not even his brothers knew. America hardened his eyes, trying to control his nerves and uncertainty.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk… why did you come up here?" He tsked disapprovingly. America paled a bit. The way England was acting… _no, stop thinking about it, adjust, deal with it. Here and now._ America snapped at himself. Still, it unnerved him. Something lurked in those green jewels set in the English face, something unnatural and alien. Mystical… magical. Slowly, not slowly enough, England raised to fingers and jabbed America in the middle of his forehead, a spark lighting as skin brushed flesh. It felt like America's sinuses were filling with concrete, the pressure moving to the backs of his eyes as his vision faded, his gaze never leaving England's hard, concentrated eyes.

**Sorry it took me so long to get this up! mY COMPUTER harddrive died, and i mourne its death. I hope you enjoy it!**


	4. Chapter 4

America fell to his knees, a glazed look in his eyes. England took his hand away, staring down the country before him. He could feel the effort England was putting into this. Silence hung like a shroud over the brothers, knowing to interrupt this would not be a good idea. They knew the energy being spent here, and that Britain would need help after he was done. Sure enough, one of England's knees buckled, him nearly falling to the ground. Sweat beaded his brow, the intensity in his eyes wavering as exhaustion became evident. N. and S. Ireland trotted over to their brother, putting his arms over their shoulders. England broke the flow of power between him and America, feeling something inside him snap. This caused him to pause. It was a strange feeling, and feeling that made him look at Scotland. Scotland hostile stare faltered to uncertainty, there was something… Whenever he had done this, England had to pay a high price. Memories are precious and shouldn't be tempered with, and the laws that are in place demands a payment for such intrusion. What did England loose?

England had blacked out. Water crashed into his face, waking him with a jolt. He looked around, his vision hazy. It was a dark, wide room. Aged wood shined dully in the amber light. Sitting up, Britain glared at Scotland, who had sat down in one of the leather chairs by the foot of the bed. Rubbing his eyes, Britain recognized this room. It was the one he lived in when he lived with Scotland. He recognized the light brown stag mounted on the wall over the fire place, the ancient books with yellowed pages that he had read as a child, but now would fall into a pile of dust if England were to so much as breath on them. Scotland was staring at the glass of whiskey thoughtfully.

"What the bloody hell was that for?!" England huffed. He absolutely _loathed_ being woken up with water. Being alone with his brothers doesn't give him a reason to hide his emotions, so, he didn't. Scotland snorted,

"You know you're impossible to awaken without water. Anyway, I need to talk to you. What…" Scotland took a sip of the whiskey, completely unfazed by the alcohol. "Did it cost you…" He took a swig of the drink. England hated when Scotland did this, "To take that Americans memories?" He downed the last of the whiskey, pouring in some other liquid that was undoubtedly alcohol. England tensed at the question, freezing to the place he was. He had to answer carefully… complications in the executing of the agreement will not be tolerated. Quickly shrugging, acting loose as to trick Scotland with false body language, England rolled his eyes,

"Scotland. As you know, with these… gifts I suppose to call them, they have the laws we respect. What I lost, I do not know. You know it works like that sometimes." England reminded. Scotland rolled his eyes and looked away in exasperation. He stood up, poured another glass of liquid, and walked over to England. Suspicion sunk its claws into England. Allister was being way to civil with him. And the look in his eyes… confusing, holding less animosity than they usually should. That feeling crept into him again, like a flame rolling against chains of ice. He could feel it, than couldn't. Like he was separated from this, but completely intertwined with it in the same moment. Scotland handed him the drink, making it clear he was going to drop it if England didn't take it. Grumbling, England took the drink, sniffing it. It was orange juice, thank god. He took a sip, shuffling out of bed. Scotland returned to his chair, a shrewd glint in his blazing bottle green eyes. Shaking off the feeling, England went to get dressed, when he found all his shirts and pants gone. Straitening up, he turned to Scotland, who was chuckling into his drink.

"Where'd you put my bloody clothes you prat?" Britain moaned. Looking at him from the corner of his eye, Scotland replied,

"Oh, those ugly things? Please, you know only old men wear _sweater vests_. Honestly, doesn't most of your younger generation wear _punk_?" England sucked in a sharp breath and squinted viscously.

"What exactly are you implying? _I am not wearing punk, I am a proper Englishmen!_" England hissed through gritted teeth.

"Who is to say punk isn't proper wear for Englishmen?" Scotland prodded. Face reddening, England spat,

"How is that proper?! I can't control what my country wears! It's their choice!"

"Is is your choice to wear such _horrible _clothes _all _the time? I only wear a kilt when I need to! Those things _itch_. And I bet those sweater vests do to. No, you should at least try it. And that's all I'm saying about it. Also…" England knew exactly what Scotland was gonna say next, and he dreaded it, "You… need to tighten up… that flab you call a stomach."

"You're taking over my life." England muttered. Either Scotland didn't hear or didn't care, because he set a black bag on the bed.

"If it makes you feel any better, Wales will wear this too. You could be twin-like. Its unnatural really, how much you too look alike but act so different. It could be the fact that he has a dragon were as you have a flying mint bunny and a unicorn."

"You just don't understand them!"

"Any way, even though you have that 'expressionless' thing, your still a wimp."

"Says the man with the dislocated shoulder. Does this have anything to do with the agreement? Do you think that I won't be able to handle it?" England seethed. Scotland snorted,

"As a matter a fact, I don't." A silence hung in the room, filled with England's temper. He struggled to control it, but like those chains of ice and the ball of fire inside him, it was unpredictable. Coughing, Scotland continued, standing,

"You better put those clothes on. We're going out. Tomorrow you get fit." Was that… respect, in his eyes? Scotland couldn't possibly _respect _England? Britain shrugged it off, not wanting to deal with it. Scotland left the room, leaving the country to change. Huffing, England opened the bag. The shirt was a black button down with shiny buckles _everywhere_. On the collar, the tops of the short sleeves, the way down the opening of the shirt. It was actually pretty cool looking, but England would never tell Scotland that. The pants were a pair of dark jeans, a faint grey imprint of wings on the upper thigh. The shoes; black white-laced converse; of course, an American brand. When England put it on, he was very surprised at what he saw. He looked considerably thin, like he actually had muscles under the shirt. And it made him look like a teenager again, 'bout 19 or even 20. Then he found Wales standing by the fire place, a beanie with the Welsh flag stitched into it. England raised a eyebrow as the two stood in front of the mirror, side by side. Wales handed him a beanie with the union jack on it.

"Seriously? I am willing to put on this, but a beanie?" England snorted.

"Put it on, England, you of all people in this country should show national pride." Wales said tiredly. England through the beanie on the bed,

"Sorry, but it may work on you, but not me."

"Whatever."

England and Wales were greeted with fits of laughter that abruptly ended with a certain Welsh dragon spitting fire. S. and N. Ireland were clad in plaid and blue jeans, were as Scotland wore a blue shirt the color of his flag and dark jeans. A leather jacket hung from his hands and an exasperated expression plastered on his face. The Irelands took a faded red pickup truck, Scotland a sleek blue corvette, Wales a black red-trimmed Ferrari, and England a simple tan Honda. Seeing this horrible little car, the British Isle, minus England, cooked up what they were going to do for the day. You see, they didn't have to get started on their agreement until next week, so they were gonna have some… brotherly fun. Aka; making England less… England. Less… there's not really a word for it.

**Okay, the next couple Chapters are gonna be England getting a new car and such! Just creating more space between the awesome stuff so that its well paced! I am going to completely screw up England, so if you're not interested in a BA England, hit the road and read my other stories! Also, one of my reviewers said I should write a book, (I thank you and your awesomeness) And I created a account on this website called ****_ ._**** Its like fanfic, but you write your own stories, like a you would like your own book. Mine is **_The Skinwalker Program_ **(Skinwalker is a compound word in my story, and all rights are reserved) my username is **_thornridgeblackrise9_. **I was gonna do hawthorneash13, my current fanfic username, but I forgot the password for that one… So, yeah, check me out. Summary below (don't judge):**

The year is 2109. And, apparently, dragons are real. No one knows anything about their past, their motives. But one thing's for sure- Joss Petroc was burned by one. He currently resides in Wendell Coastal Hospice, with three months of life left. You'd think that the technology would be able to save him-but there are things that just can't and won't be done. The population is pushing 9 billion, so people arent as eager to save others anymore, despite him only being 14. But when BloodStone, a multi-trillion dollar company that has business in every city, trading port, gas station, super store, industry; you name it, there're there. Joss's hatred for the dragons is immense. He blames them for his impending death. His father, an Admint in the Constill militia, equivilent to old America's General, died, leaving him a mysterious journal to open when he turns 15. When BloodStone rep. James Dillion offers Joss to join as a perfect candidate of the Skinwalker Program, he accepts, not knowing at all what waits for him. The cobalt eyed Skinwalkers of The Skinwalker Program await the Hallowing; they await Joss, with his strange visions of the worlds shades of grey. Who knows, maybe we all live in a world of blurred charcoal and striking cobalt.

**The story is mostly about the Skinwalker Program. I just needed a way to kick the story into gear; so I chose dragons (plus they're awesome). If your curious about the making of this story, PM me. Though i doubt you are, but you know, some people are.**


	5. Chapter 5

The brothers walked into a little pub, on the corner of London. Scotland immediately made his way to the bar, Wales went to the bathroom, and the Irelands followed England to a table in the back, were they ordered sandwiches and drinks. England fidgeted with one of the buckles, nervous with the new clothes. It felt like everyone was watching him and whispering at how he was dressed. When the waiter had come up, he had asked England for some ID, much to his embarrassment.

"If I was in my regular clothes he wouldn't have asked that." He hissed at the Irelands as the giggled. Later, after they got their food and Wales' was on the way. Scotland was mumbling to the poor bar tender in Scottish, telling him about something or other in a angry tone. He was getting drunk. England trudged up to the bar, grabbing Scotland and dragging him to their table. He walked back up to the bar tender, apologizing,

"I'm sorry, my brother is a idiot." He said thoughtfully. The bar tender, dark haired and dark eyed. The bar tender, his name Smith, at least on his name tag, leaned close over the bar, looking at the table at which England had sat, replied,

"Uh, yeah." His voice was strange. He took out a glass, poured in some liquid, and put it in front England.

"Oh, um. Sorry, but I don't drink. I'm a horrible drunk who can't hold the liquor while it's still in my hand." England laughed. Smith laughed along with him,

"Its not alcohol, it's a concoction of juices and such. I want to create a drink company. If you start twitching and falling to the ground I'll get the bill." He joked. England cracked a small brief smile before drinking the bluish liquid. It was a mellow fruit flavor,

"Hmm. It's good. It's like one of those drinks you can either drink when you're not exactly thirsty, but you can chug it and it'll quench your thirst. Does that make sense?" Smiths hair fell into his eyes,

"Yeah, it makes sense." He looked at him with a thoughtful gaze. Wales walked up, slapping a hand on England's shoulder. The bar tender, raised a eyebrow,

"Oh, twins?" He asked playfully. Wales turned to him,

"Yeah," England looked at his brother, questioning. Wales texted something on his phone, showing it to England, **_Some one's being quite pleasant._** England widened his eyes,

"ME?! I am not!" He said, taking the phone and typing furiously. The bar tender was watching all the while, entertainment in his eyes.

"Sorry, but we gotta go." Wales said, taking his brother by the arm and walking out the door, their other siblings dragging Scotland with them.

**Yes, yes, I know. Its short and uneventful. I have been working on this other fanfic, so yes… I'm running into a brick wall with this. Do tell me your suggestions, I want to move along with this cuz it feels like its going to slow. And England being pleasent...I have no idea why i did that. But, it was more of a drabble this chapter, the interesting stuff will happen as soon as it does.**


	6. Chapter 6

Months later a sleek silver Jaguar XJ prowled into a familiar drive way, the blonde Brit within clambering out, still astonished he got such a car. Wales had surprisingly picked it out for him; Scotland wanted him to get a Bentley, but eventually fell asleep due to drunkenness. Wales' dragon, Aber, often mistaken Amber, was preening his wings by the front steps. He patted the dragon on the head, Aber leaning into the rub. He had grown to love England, and was fiercely protective of the British Isle, excluding Scotland, though he was great friends with Nessie. A number of countries had called him and left messages, even sent little spies. Of course, with his magical powers and with the aid of a dragon, they had driven them off. They were still going through the first stages of the agreement, and he was happy with the result.

So here was the first stage; complete conversion of all media. It had been quite difficult, but the money saved almost outweighed the money lost from not cutting down the tree's and fueling the factories used to make paper products. It was going well, it was a custom for all families to have a iPad. America had trudged over here when he got the order for all the devices. England grimaced in memory, plopping down onto the plush leather couch in the living room. S. Ireland was reading, the electric glow covering his freckled face.

_America slammed on the door, trying to control his strength and not bust the hinges of the door. England had gotten his house renovated, a classic British mansion. Arching columns with snarling gargoyles glaring from their acme, stained glass casting puddles of color upon perfectly cultured grass. Ash trees sprinkled the grounds, the disease that besieged them gone, leaving healthy tall figures. The estate felt like it was stuck between the 'now' and the ages past, in the simpler times of Britain, before he raised America. A scraping was heard within the house, a quick yell telling the owner of the scraping to 'sit' and 'stay'. _

_Soon the brushed silver handle turned, revealing an angrily squinting… teenager? He was dressed in black, leaning lazily against the door, glaring through his hair. His blonde hair, his acidic green eyes, his monstrous brows that rose in realization as he saw who was before him. Quickly he tried to shut the door, only to crush America's foot. He turned his face expressionless as the door opened again, America looking at him intensely. Realization smacked him in the face._

_"England…?" He whispered. England hid his face behind the door, slapping it in exasperation._

_"Yes, America? What do you want?" England replied, walking past him, towards the drive way. The rest of his clothes were revealed, showing a severely menacing looking chain dangling from baggy black pants. He shoved his hands into his pockets as America followed, a dimwitted expression plastered onto his face. England took out a button, pressing it. America excepted the crappy Honda to beep back, but was startled by the loud purr that erupted from a bright silver Jaguar. England popped the trunk, rummaging around._

_"Why haven't you been calling me back?" He crocked, mentally strangling himself for sounding like a teenage girl. To his surprise, England chuckled, looking at him sideways. _

_"Alright, fangirl. I've been tied up with updating the media. Which I'm sure is the excuse why you darkened my door step."_

_"How do you know what a fangirl is?! You don't know these things! What happened to your sweater vests?! They make you look a prune!" America panicked. England's expression turned sour,_

_"Scotland fed them to Nessie, and Wales' made Aber burn my pants." _

_"You have a Jaguar! Yu could have bought some more! Where's your crappy Honda?!"_

_England chuckled lowly at that, "I'm sure Kiku would greatly appreciate that."_

_"Stop! Your freaking me out!" America was truly creeped out by this new England. _

_"Stop what, America?" England pulled out small ax, setting it on the ground. America widened his eyes at that, pointing.  
"W-Why do you have a ax?" He sputtered. England placed a heavy bag on his back, hidden muscles rippling. He would never be able to carry this before; and his people had reaped the rewards of his strength. Less people were dying of obesity and cholesterol problems. He picked up the ax, heading around back to the yard. America followed, pestering him. The union jack flapped over head, snapping the breeze as Aber flew lazily downward, enlarging his size to a horse._

_"E-England! T-there's the dragon!" America yelled. Honestly it surprised Britain that America was being such a wimp. Wait. He was supposed to be the wimp. Had America gotten less callused without their arguments? It was like that with England, except the reverse, he spent so much time fighting with his brothers that it made him hard, again._

_"Aber, come." Britain ordered lovingly, slamming the ax head into a log and dropping the stuff next to it. The dragon trotted forward, leaning his head down to be stroked by England._

And so that went on, America freaking out, questioning him, blah, blah, blah. The stuff in the bag was meat for Aber and the ax was there to cut it. Nothing to do with the agreement. America demanded an explanation for his absence, and not this 'agreement' stuff. He yelled at him for shirking his responsibilities, and then got extremely agitated when England did not reply with anger, but with calm outlining of his own, _constant_ shirking of responsibilities.

After all was said and done, America left, dazed, upset. England had gone to drink some tea, trying to calm the viscous tide of emotions within him. He may have gotten close with _some_ of his brothers, but America was an exception. He had been the big brother then, to him, to raise him. Honestly, it hurt when he stopped talking to America, and he wouldn't have been so board either if he kept up his personal connections with the G8.

England pondered this as he gazed outside, watching his flying mint bunny crawl up a tree. His unicorn sat next to his lion, the lion licking the unicorn's mane. His official animals are the unicorn and the lion; they're on the queen's crest. He somehow conjured up the flying mint bunny during a drunken induced spell. Suddenly, Scotland stumbled out, arm flung around N. Irelands neck, holding him in a head lock. England watched dully, S. Ireland not even looking up from his device. Sighing the Brit told,

"Scotland, I'd prefer if you wouldn't crush North's neck in my house. I don't need Harry eating him." Harry was the name of his lion. He's the animal of Gryffindor. Hogwarts is _real_, just saying. He went there as a student once… he was a Gryffindor, surprisingly enough. Scotland had thought for sure he'd get Hufflepuff. Wales' got Ravenclaw, S. and N. Ireland went into Hufflepuff, and Scotland went into Slytherin. Their attendance was in the birth days of Hogwarts.

"Its time to move onto the next stage of the Agreement." North spoke in a rush before Scotland smacked a hand to his mouth, sneering.

**My juices are flowing again! Sry this took so long. Exams... track meets...we won! Mostly... So hope ya'll like this. **


	7. Chapter 7

**By the way, I will now refer to South Ireland as Republic or just Ireland, since my stupid little self wasn't addressing the country (in its part) properly. For that, I apologize. In lieu of calling him South, I'll call him Republic or R.. Sorry if I am a little inconsistent, as in, if I accidently call him South! Again, I am sorry.**

"Its time to move onto the next stage of the Agreement." North spoke in a rush before Scotland smacked a hand to his mouth, sneering. Republic jerked his head up, staring at North with his piercing green eyes. He turned off the tablet, his gaze flickering from Scotland to England and then North.

"Why?" England asked in a daze. Scotland tightened his hold on the orange haired man, his own fiery mane in stark contrast with his red face. Republic flew to stand, walking over to his brother. He crossed his arms, glaring daggers at his twin.

"Let go of him." He ordered. Taken back as he was, Scotland released the flustered nation. Cocking back his arm, Republic's arm crashed into his brothers stomach. As he crumpled, Republic put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"Leave, both of you. Tell Wales' to go die in a hole." He spat. Staring wide eyed at their brothers' sudden aggression, they hurriedly dashed out of the room. The resounding hum of their fancy cars alerted Republic to their absence. Casting a disgusted look at his brother, he walked away quickly, hand clutching his chin. Then he turned back around just as quickly,

"Why?! Why must we do this?!" He yelled, looking away again.

"You know why, Republic, please; it's neither mine nor Wales' fault. We don't want to do this, you know that. But if we are to succeed, we must. Do you really think _I_ want to do this either?! You're my brother! And what of England and Scotland?! They don't know what will have to happen for the third stage to commence!" He sobbed, putting a searching hand out on the back of the couch to steady him. He clutched his mouth, trying to hold in the tears. Ireland's angry fire wetted, abating deep within for a rainy day. He felt selfish for being mad, even though he had a perfectly good reason to. He collapsed onto the couch, sighing heavily. _Why? Why does it have to be me? _He thought, sending a mournful ache through his body. It was getting worse; the tablet had confirmed it.

North had seated himself at the piano, staring at it. Then he started to play. Little known fact about North Ireland and his soul; it screamed for piano. The man, not the country, loved the instrument almost as much as Austria. He breezed through _Moonlight Sonata,_ morphing into his own piece. It calmed him and his brother greatly. For his roughness, he did have an appreciation for classical. Only North and Austria knew of this; Austria was the one who taught him. He quietly mulled over what must be done, when he started to panic his tempo increased, telling him to calm. They _had _to find them, to stop the end of the world. To stop the unavoidable- in truth, to delay it.

**This chapter is incredibly short, but the goal of the British Isle Agreement has been revealed. To be honest, up till now I hadn't really known were to go with the story line, but I figured the end of the world would be a good motivation for everything their doing. So… North Ireland playing piano. I _don't _know where that came from, honestly. But I thought 'to heck with it, he'll play piano if I want him to!' and I was listening to _Moonlight Sonata,_ (which I am proudly able to play… on my right hand. Sry! Its not my instrument!) and I thought England shouldn't be the only one to have all the unexpected stuff going on. Any thoughts of what they have to do to Republic? I appreciate ya'lls feedback! And it just occurred to me that I say 'ya'll' a lot in my AN… hmm. Darn American accent! REVIEW, I COMMAND YOU! **

**P.S I guess I also wanted him to have some class, because it strikes me as racists to act like the personification is completely rough and uneducated and stuff. I know the show is racist, but I'm not, so yeah. I will also release a chapter shortly after this one to make up for the length! **


	8. Chapter 8

_America had grudgingly sent the shipment to England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland; after he had left England's house, he had to run to a meeting, disheveled and frankly peeved. Once he entered the room, all eyes went to him, and then fell away, going back to their arguments of conversations on phones or to each other. They were looking to see if he was England. He cleared his throat loudly, catching their attention. They looked at him bewildered, why was America being so somber, so polite? He usually would have yelled loudly to get their attention, and he wasn't chomping on a burger either. He set his brief case down, clutching the hem of his shirt._

"_I saw England." A hushed silence filled the room. France jerked his head over to quickly, all attention now on the American._

"_Were?" France asked._

"_His house. He had order over 40 million Apple and Microsoft products, so I went to find out why. I had tried going to his house before, but always got kicked off before I could even get down his road. When I got their… he was different." America shuddered, remembering the way Britain had dressed, acted, reacted. He remembered the dragon. He made eye contact with Germany, Russia, and France._

"_How so?" Japan quietly asked._

"_He… didn't even seem to be himself. For starters when I first saw him I thought he was some random teenager or young adult. When I asked him why he ordered so many electronics, he had said, 'we are executing complete conversion of all physical media to an electronic basis' or something like that. It was weird. And he had an ax in his trunk. And he got a new car, and oh my god he was freaking me out-" America rambled. It was decided, a group of three would go to England's house. Japan, America, France, since he could probably get to England the most, and Canada, because he could infiltrate and not be noticed, certainly an odd group._

_Least to say the countries were quite unsure of what America had said. Some of the things that had happened didn't even seem like England _at all; _why would England get a Jaguar? What happened to his crappy Honda (no offense Kiku)? Some of these questions were trivial, unimportant, but due to the nature of the group, they were asked. After many hours of debate, the quad of countries left the capital city of America, planning to take a long route to get to England. Meaning they would go through Canada. Why this way, you ask? Because the author wants to prolong the inevitable meeting of the countries so they can build suspense and momentum._

_So, a month after this meeting of America and England, after the debating of whom should go and the stagey mostly orchestrated by Germany, China, and Prussia, they set off, following the border of the original 13 colonies. _

_They were in a limo, America's, sleek black and inconspicuous, driving through Maine, a couple miles from the Canadian border. America was unusually quiet as they drove past a monument. A remnant of when he tried to invade Canada, who was still Britain's colony during his Revolution. He had failed miserably; mostly because he had no real military trained officers and at this certain area his soldiers had fired on themselves. He sighed heavily, trying not to look at Canada, who was staring at him with laser beams coming from his eyes. He had failed then, not even breaching Canada's border, and he had failed to keep England… uninfluenced by his brothers and this damn agreement. He wished he knew what it entailed, but alas, he was ignorant. All the CIA agents he had sent, 20 in all, had come back mumbling about the color white and a flying green rabbit that smelled like mint. The government had stopped allowing him access to their agents, but he still had their databases and technology as a resource. _

_America felt a slithering shift on him, rolling off his side. They had entered Canada. This is what he felt whenever he had entered his brothers country, and vice versa for Canada. Truly, it was what it was like for every country exciting their land. Canada perked a bit. The quad was accompanied by Japan's constant clicking of a camera as they sped through the Canadian country side. France was unusually inactive, staring out the window while absent mindedly picking at a thread on his shirt. Canada noticed these strange behaviors, as he noticed everything. He was really concerned by the silence of his brother and his papa. He was a French colony before he was a British colony, and was influenced by the French for as long as he can remember. They were usually the loud obnoxious ones. He could see France preoccupied by thought, but it was harder for his brother. _

_His brother's character and behavior was subject to the ways of the teenage generation (children are our future, is the thought of the American people.) The adult side of him is dormant most of the time due to the attention given to the younger generation. It is quite hard to explain, so it may not be done adequately and understandably. You see, the generations as a whole aren't very mature; look at how the woman act, clutching their material items like a life raft when their children need feeding; the men with their mistresses, the children with their drugs. It is known not all are like this, in fact most aren't, but the chaos gets far more attention than the order; it's human nature._

_And then there is the actual person, Alfred. He was bossed around as a child by England, left alone in a big house as a colony; he went to war with England for his Revolution, and later in the War of 1812, the Non- Intercourse Act. It became national standard when at war or on defense. Basically it cuts off all communication with a certain country. He was forced to grow up quickly, and he's atoning for it now, with immaturity in hopes he can 'relive his youth' so to speak. Strange is the way of men. _

**This is mostly a filler chapter, and a break from the British Isle. I hope it is adequately done, and not to confusing. Its explained much better in my head, but not with words. Isn't that strange? You understand something perfectly, and when asked to explain why that is, you can't, thus looking like you lied?**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ok, I realized I haven't addressed Wales, the Republic of Ireland and North Ireland by their human names. I've looked up Wales' name and I've seen Dylan and Gavan. For the reasons that I've seen Gavan as a more constant name, I will use it, and the fact I also like it.**

_Wales' wiped the stress sweat from his brow, his nerves were jumbled and there was a bitter-stale taste in his mouth. He swallowed it thickly. He heard the blood in his ears, felt the pulse of his heart, a sinking pit-less feeling in his stomach. His breathing was hard and short, rushing through his nostrils. He started to feel nauseous. Before him stood Stone Henge, but each stone was soaked in blood and gore. Rivers of fluid, some the red, some clear, ran down the face of the stones, yet there wasn't a body in site. The puddles were tick and colligated, the air reached. It was horrendous. But there was something else, something darker. Wales had seen bloodshed, and seen people do things worse than this display of horror. Above, connecting the stone pillar's, was what looked like a net of flesh. It was freezing, but the warmth of the blood was felt. _

_No, the thing that struck Wales to his core was who stood in the center. He was hazy, and in his hand was a rusted, bloody hand sickle and in the other a pure white lily. When he looked at Wales, it was like… the purest form of chaos. There was no evil when it came to the ideology of Wales. There was chaos, and order. He saw the face; pale, one eye electric blue, one eye a frightening familiar jade… a mirror image of him. And yet, he couldn't give the man a name. Behind his grinning, hooded face, a swarm of hawks and bats blotted out the sky. _

The image dissolved, and Wales jolted forward from the couch, Aber in his shrunken form sleeping soundly on his lap. He was panting, looking around to see where he was. He was at his house in England, near Chester. It was like the castles he once had and still has; made of stone and some modern materials. It had holes in the walls and tunnels in the floors for Aber to wander through the house as he pleased without being seen by Wales' reps when they visited. Propping himself up on his elbows, Gavan stealthily slipped his legs from under the warm dragon whom he loved dearly. Pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes, Gavan tried to process what he dreamed. It was a beginning, don't ask him how he knew, he just did.

He didn't remember coming to his house. He was heading out from England's house and then seemed to blackout, wake up, and found himself here. Aber was snoring gently; his snore was a strange sound, because it was out of proportion to his current body size. Aber could grow to be large enough to accommodate three men on his back and small enough to be the size of a house cat. He got up, finding a crippling pain from his hips down. He crumbled clutching his legs. Up on the screen, the news was on. A blonde woman was reporting the stocks and economic condition when surprise crossed her face momentarily as her lines change.

"…it appears that the Irish military has attacked the regions from Builth Wells to Fishguard, Hay-On-Wye and and everything in between with deadly force. It is unknown of the causalities and the damage, only that it is severe." Wales couldn't seem to hear after that. Ireland (Republic) had _attacked_ him. Well, he shouldn't be surprised, he should have expected it, considering what he had to do to him. But his brother… he couldn't feel the air in his lungs at the moment. Not because of his brother, no, they hadn't been getting along well _at all_ of late. But they've been able to hide it around the others. It was because he was starting to feel the effects of the attacks.

Oh, oh no…_why?!_

Wales chocked, causing all ready writhing Aber to drag himself over to his master. He purred in the back of his throat despite the strife he felt, comforting the man. Slightly. He rolled on his back, feeling the emotions of his people fill his chest. Sadness, grief, confusion, uncertainty, panic, fear…_ rage_. It was strongest, completely dominating the Welsh man. He roared with a grunt, standing, a ludicrous smile on his pained face as he thought of his sweet revenge. A knocking alerted him of a presence, to which he opened the door to, his smile falling into an emotionless expression. It was one of his reps. He was disheveled, sweaty, and appeared to have run from his car. He snapped in speedy Welsh, demanding Wales' do something. Two other men and one woman came in, demanding the same. He sat back down on the couch, them following, their voices escalating but stopping abruptly when they saw Aber. Wales' opened his palm face up while Aber placed his thorny head in his hand. He chuckled noiselessly, and couldn't hide the smile anymore. He glared at the reps,

"You want to know what I'll do? Huh?" He prompted. They nodded quietly, still staring at the dragon. Gavan stood, walking to the porch. Though you couldn't see it with the naked eye, Wales could imagine the pillar of smoke rising in the distance. They followed, standing timidly on the door way. Gavan was acting strange; yet they hadn't ever had a situation like this, and they didn't know what to expect from him. He chuckled darkly as Aber jumped off the railing, flying and gaining mass with each flap of his wings. Gavan turned to look at them,

"Have you met the personification of Ireland? There's actually two of them; the other is North Ireland. They're twins. You want to know how I know that?" He asked in a threatening tone. The woman, brown hair tied back, spoke reluctantly,

"No, we haven't met them. You're implying you have." She replied, trying not to sound like a wimp with sarcasm. He shook his head, his long-ish hair hiding his green eyes,

"I've meet them. But my focus right now is on Ireland. I am feeling a great amount of animosity and insanity, some of my own creation, due to the fact he's my (_implied curse word_) brother. All us of the Isle are brothers, dimwit." He spat. He clenched the wooden railing, reducing it to splinters. He revisited the dream, and a dawning understanding filled him.

"Ready the hounds of war, and awaken the fires of hell. For the dragons breath will scorch the Irish land."

**I hate myself sometimes. I really do. I had no idea where making Wales and Ireland go to war came from and it doesn't seem to follow any logic of my story. Perhaps I'll do an alternate chapter to this. Anyway, any idea what the dream means? And its not England (I lied!) (or did i…?). I am also very tired right now, but I was bursting with inspiration, so I wrote.(this implies it may not make sense) Tell me what y'all think since I really don't know what to make of this, like at all. North Ireland had nothing to do with this, by the way. Its all Republic. Why? Because of what Wales has to do. And the insanity thing is mostly to sound more dramatic and to freak out the reps so they get the point of the affect the country has on Gavan, since they haven't really had a feel for it before. COMMET, REVIEW, WHATEVER WORKS THAT GETS YOU TO DO IT!**

**P.S: For the **Oh, oh no…_why?! _**I don't address that for a reason. It will be found out later… I think. It could mean nothing, or everything. Who knows?**


	10. Chapter 10-THE END! UNTIL THE SEQUEL!

England gripped the leather wheel of his car, his mind hollow. He could not think at all, for some reason, just relying on muscle memory. It felt like a fog had settled in his mind, so perhaps that's why he didn't notice he was going 90 miles an hour, or the giant red semi coming from the opposite direction, crashing into the side of his expensive car. His head slammed into the wheel with a crushing force; it would have split any other head in two. Metal crumpled and its sharp points stuck into him, the seat collapsed and smashed his ribs. Glass fell into his open mouth, scratching the gasping maw. The car flipped, twisting hideously. The car landed with a crunch, rolled onto the roof. A door, which had come loose during the vehicles acrobatics, came down and snapped the already strained axel. England suffered silently in the cab, waiting for the gas to light. He knew it was going to happen, and all he could do was try not to choke on glass. He couldn't pull himself out; his arms were twisted painfully backwards by the seat belt, and his face rest against the dash. The window had shattered, at least allowing him a nice breeze. Everything hurt beyond perception.

David Furters had always been a terrible driver, and when he collided with that car, he knew he was never going to drive again. He had stumbled out of the semi, running to the mans aid. He hoped he wasn't too late. There he was, in a ditch with his car, face thrown against the dash, green eyes dull and loosing life quickly. A woman came out of no were, speaking in a harsh tone to the emergency services, demanding a ambulance. David sprinted to the man, seeing how contorted he was. He would have to cut the seat straps; the smell of gas reached in the air. The engine rumbled and sent off dangerous waves of heat. The breeze didn't help. Taking the pocket knife from his pocket, David started to saw the seat belt, cursing the small blunt blade. A hissing filled the air, and frantically he worked the seat belt, pulling the cut with an incredible amount of strength, tearing it. Next step was to get the man's legs out from under the dash. Looking at him, David nearly chocked when he saw all the blood spewing from the blondes swollen mouth. His skin was practically shredded on his face. Grasping the man from under his arms, he went to tug before a shout told him to stop. Looking up, he saw another blonde man, the glare of the sun reflecting off his glasses. His accent was American, and his face was shocked. He jogged to the blonde, jumping on the hood to get a good look at him. He crouched, pushing the other man out of the way, much to his protest. He rested a hand on England's head,

"What have you done?" He whispered. England's eyes darted at the familiar accent, still unable to move. He found he was currently paralyzed. His vision flickered, so he started to close his eyes. America tapped his head, but he wouldn't respond. With his mighty strength, USA tore off the dash, throwing it over his head, not caring if it landed in the road. England slumped forward, and was caught in the American's grasp. America laid him gently on the ground, weary of his back. He knew England was going to die; it was the only way for his body to become whole again after this. But none the less, tears fell. He threw off his glasses, resting his head on England's chest. The man, David, spoke,

"You should-"

"Shut up; he's my… my…" America practically yelled his eyes ablaze. Seeing he should really not squander this moment, the man left to wait at the road. England turned his head to look at the American, finding it easier now that the piece of metal that was in his back was still in the car. He took a rattling breath, indicating one of his lungs had leaked out of his mouth, and thankfully all of the glass had fallen out. He tried to speak regardless,

"A… merica…" he coughed a little, turning his head to spit in the grass. America pulled his head onto his lap, stroking his hair kindly.

"England?" He asked. It was like back the War of 1812 all over again. Lifting a hand, England showed him his palm. On it was the Union Jack in tattoo form. He pressed it against Alfred's cheek, it shifting from the hand to the face. A small glow emerged, and than it dissolved. America looked at him in confusion. Grabbing his shirt, England weakly pulled him down as to speak into his ear,

"Y-y-your n-" cough "not…" rattling breath "dead… t-to me." He whispered. Not done speaking, he choked further, "I will… n-not be coming… back… after this…" he groaned. America felt his panic level go farther than it ever has. Tightening his grip on the Brit,

"What do y-you mean?" Tears chocked him like blood chocked Britain. In reply, Britain brought his face to his. "I-I…am… sorry… take care…of Harry… and my…la-" he exhaled, no longer able to breathe. He pressed his lips to America's, through the blood, pain, fear, and peace. Head rolling to the side, England appeared to be dead. But his eyes still saw, and he saw the Britannia angel take his hand and pull him out of his body. Relief cleansed his body like nothing he had ever felt before; peace wiggled its way into his chest. In the back of his mind, he was weeping uncontrollably, but he was still peaceful. America was silently clutching his shirt, shaking as sobs racked his body. This part of the agreement came earlier than expected, he must admit. But the seer never lies. He was dressed in his green military clothing. He strode over to America, feeling part of his spirit inside him. He had given his country to the American; he would realize it soon enough. Sirens finally arrived. He fondly placed his hand on Alfred's shoulder, leaning down to his ear.

"You will father a nation, lad." He whispered. It appeared America heard him, because he shot up and looked to his right. England hoped he saw him. England didn't really know why he kissed his ex-colony, but it felt appropriate. No matter what was said before, not matter what was planned to prevent it, England was meant to die in this agreement. Wales and Ireland were meant to go to war, and Scotland was meant to break it up. America was meant to make the UK his land. Turning his head, he saw the shocked, startled, familiar faces of the countries he had the honor of knowing, even France. France struggled against the paramedics, Japan was cursing loudly at them, also trying to get through, and Canada ran down, falling to his knees. Tears leaked out his eyes,

"He's not dead. He can't be… countries cant die, especially from a car crash." England watched sadly as America realized what he had given him. Holding up his palm, he showed it to Canada.

"I-I think he gave me h-his country." He croaked, renewing his tears. The Union Jack flickered. The paramedics pulled both countries away, them to sad and freaked out to use their freakish strength. England turned back to the angel, who was a mirror image of him.

"Must I leave?" He asked mournfully.  
"Yes, you have done more than what you had to." Was his sympathetic reply; a bright light shone through the clouds, resting on the space in front of the Brit. England had been a Christian nation for so long, and he was on his way to heaven. Until a tendril of darkness shot out, ripping through the angel, effectively sending him back to heaven, and out of the way. All this was going on a different plane of existence, but it still could interact with the living world. The light closed leaving a cold darkness. It enveloped the struggling soul, swallowing him and dragging him to a yet another world, one of fire, blood, metal, snow, and torture.

Spinning in the blackness that enveloped him, England entered the depths of Hell.

**Please don't hate me! This is not the end! I'm just setting up for the sequel. Yup, so if you all want to find out what everything means, and what happens, your gonna have to follow me! Or at least look for the fic in my reservoir of stories. Tell ya what, I'll post the name of the sequel in chapter 11, and ya'll can go and get it. I wasn't actually planning to do this; but it seemed to make sense. And I did say seer, so you got wonder 'What does Greece have to do with this?' A lot, actually. I have to type up the sequel now… great. Any ideas what the name should be? I'm lost. It had less to do with the agreement than the end of the world thing. So think apocalypse, and a resurrected- Oops! Did I just let something slip?! Ha, I do it to give peace of mind. And make it quick! I want to get this sequel published!**


	11. Chapter 11-name for the sequel!

**To my readers of THE BRITISH ISLE AGREEMENT. I have posted the sequel! Its called ****_Refused Entrance_****, so check it out and such! **

**Thanks for sticking with me this long, guys, i appreciate it a lot! **


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